


I Found Something In The Woods Somewhere

by king_finn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Mostly to tell them to fuck off, Not a major character though, Suicide mention, Yennefer makes a brief appearance, beta read actually hell yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:49:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22909645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: After getting wounded by a particularly nasty Kikimora, Geralt spends a week in the woods, fighting an infection and ailing. When he finally wakes up, a scream rings through the forest. He finds the source: a wounded fox. But as he approaches the creature, he can't help but notice the bright blue eyes, and how familiar they seem.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 92
Kudos: 859





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to @panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> So this will be a three-part series, and will upload over the next week, while I start writing part 2 of the Wasteland, baby series. This fic, especially the first chapter, is heavily inspired by In The Woods Somewhere by Hozier (the fic title is a lyric from the song as well). (Yes, I know I'm naming all my fics after Hozier songs rn, but they're just so good.)
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it! (also follow and/or yell at me on tumblr @smol-squish-ao3 , I post teasers and stuff there!)

Faces floated in front of his eyes as he tried to keep them open, his vision fading out and reappearing every few seconds. The world swayed around him, sweat dripping from his brow. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to fight the dizziness washing over him. Behind closed eyelids, he saw the face of his mother, her red hair and kind eyes treacherous. Yennefer appeared next to her, all raven curls and snarky expressions.

He groaned and lifted a heavy hand to swat the visions away, and they disappeared like smoke, the colours blending into each other to form one last face. Brown hair framing blue eyes, the lips forming words he couldn’t hear, the hurt in his features apparent and painful.

Geralt’s voice was hoarse, and his throat parched, the words barely able to leave his mouth. “I’m sorry, Jaskier.” He opened his eyes again, the world around him different shades of grey and brown, the shapes blurred. Somewhere, in the outskirts of his mind, he could feel the cool night air on his warm skin, sweat dripping from his forehead. The dirt underneath him fell away, and he was falling, falling, into the abyss. _I’m sorry_ \- his last thought before he went unconscious once again.

҉ ҉ ҉

He awoke with a start, blinking furiously to clear the haze in front of his eyes. Dirt was digging in his cheek, and he could smell the iron of blood, both old and fresh. He tried to push himself up with his left arm from his foetal position on the forest floor, but his shoulder screamed in agony, and he dropped back into the mud with a groan.

Instead, he waited until the pain subsided, then used his right arm to lift himself up, slowly but surely, until he was sat upright, his back against an old oak tree. His lungs were heaving, and he had to fight the dark spots that were swimming across his vision, determined to stay awake this time.

He was in the woods, large canopies above his head filtering the light, making everything beneath the orange leaves dim and grey. About twenty yards to his right, he saw a large, dark shape on the ground. He frowned, struggling to regain his memory.

His mind offered no clues as to why he was here, so instead, he focused on the most pressing matter at hand: the wound on his shoulder. He lifted his hand up with great effort, shifting the armour and shirt away from his left arm. A large gash adorned his shoulder, barely healed, the edges coated in dried blood. The skin around it was a violent red. An infection.

He dropped the clothes back, wincing as pain flared up again, and he let his head fall back against the bark of the oak tree. Possibilities of what could have happened crossed his mind, eventually jogging his memory.

He lolled his head to the right, regarding the dark shape, inhaling the sharp scent that the thing emanated. A kikimora, dead for about a week. His mind flashed back.

҉ ҉ ҉

_The water of the small, murky pond sloshed at his ankles as the Kikimora fell down in front of him, the water around it turning dark with blood. He pushed the thing with his foot, turning the large body to its side. He lowered himself on his knees and pushed a hand into the wound in the monster’s neck, cringing slightly at the wet sound it made, and the feeling of warm blood running over his lower arm as he pressed deeper._

_His fingers eventually closed around the hilt of his dagger, and he grasped it tightly, gathering all his strength to pull it out, a fresh wave of blood leaving the Kikimora’s neck after his hand._

_He shook out his arm, droplets of blood falling off his clothes and the dagger, onto the ground below. He stretched his back out, and rolled his head from side to side, to fight the familiar soreness emerging in his muscles. This Kikimora had been a particularly nasty one, and had managed to disarm the Witcher, which had forced him to resort to driving a dagger deep into the monster’s throat._

_He groaned, and rolled his shoulders as he walked over to his sword, where it was sticking from the ground, hilt up, a dozen or so feet away. He stopped dead in his tracks, as he felt pain flare up in his left shoulder, and he groaned again, this time in annoyance._

_He pushed away the fabric and armour above the wound, and found a large gash underneath. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it needed care anyways, as the monster blood and murky water he was covered in might cause the wound to infect._

_He sighed, and continued walking to his sword, pulling it from the mud and sheathing it. He would have to clean his weapons later, but for now, he had to tend to his shoulder. He looked around, trying to find his bag, frowning when he couldn’t locate it. It must have been flung away during the struggle. For the tenth time that day, he wished Roach was there with him. He’d had to leave her behind in the town at the foot of the hill, as the path up was too treacherous for her._

_He turned round and round, eyes scanning the area for his pack, eventually finding it next to an old oak tree. He walked over to it, and lowered himself on the ground, rummaging through his things for a healing potion, uncorking it with his teeth and downing it. He sat back against the bark, and closed his eyes for a second, as he waited for the magic to start working._

_Tiredness weighed his limbs down, and he found himself drifting into sleep. He usually didn’t sleep right after a fight, and he still had to clean his wound, but the Kikimora had caught him by surprise. The townspeople had miscalculate its location, and the monster itself had been smarter than average, so it had managed to sneak up on him._

_He tried to get up, but sleep overtook him easily, and he sagged down on the ground, laying on his right side in the fallen leaves._

_The next time he woke up, he was ailing. He would be for the next seven days, until his fever finally broke._

҉ ҉ ҉

He blinked slowly, once, twice, as the memories flooded through him. He frowned, realizing he had been lying on the forest floor for a week, waiting for his body to beat the infection. Surely, the townspeople must think him dead after all this time, and he clenched his fists as he thought of what they might have done with Roach in his absence.

He groaned as he pushed himself upwards, holding on to low-hanging branches of the oak tree for support. The mud made a wet sound beneath his feet, the dirt having been wetted by his blood while he was lying there, unconscious. Slinging his bag over his non-wounded shoulder was hard, walking was harder, and he staggered from tree to tree.

Looking up, he only saw leaves and branches, grey spots of sky in between. He had no idea what time it was, with the absence of the sun, but he knew which way to go, as the village lay at the bottom of the hill. He started down the slope, feet slipping away a few times over the fallen leaves. It was at least a day’s walk to the town, even if he was in any good shape. It would probably take longer now, as his legs were unsteady and his mind barely clear of fog.

He looked down at the forest floor, deciding to focus on his feet, and putting one in front of the other, over and over, slipping, regaining balance, walking on.

Slowly the darkness grew around him, and his limbs were tired and heavy. He found an old willow tree, and laid his bedroll underneath it, shielded from hostile eyes by the many branches. He laid down on his back, staring at the few leaves still on the tree, seeing bits of night sky between them. His eyelids drooped down, and he fell into a deep sleep.

҉ ҉ ҉

_“Dammit, Jaskier, why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you, shovelling it?” Rage coursed through his veins like fire. He could not keep the words from rising out of his chest, into the Bard’s stunned face. Geralt’d had_ enough. _He’d just lost Yennefer due to some stupid decision he had made years ago, and the hurt was too new, too fresh, sharp edges cutting away at the inside of his chest._

_Jaskier had been right there, ready to cheer him up – except Geralt didn’t want that right now. What he wanted was some peace and quiet, and a chance to hurt in solitude._

_He tried to ignore the way the Bard seemed to hesitate for what could possibly be the first time in his life and could not stop another outburst of the anger raging in his blood. “The Child Surprise, the djinn- all of it!” Truly, the only constant throughout all of his misery, all of his problems, had been Jaskier. He had been there to drag Geralt to the betrothal feast. He had been there to ruin his wishes for the djinn. He was there at the moment to act like nothing happened, even though Yennefer had just left._

_A small voice in the back of his head told him that Jaskier had also been there to clean up his reputation, to hold him company, to help and cheer him up when Geralt needed it the most. Yet, that tiny part of him was soon buried under a new wave of rage as purple eyes danced across his vision._

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take_ you _off my hands!” Some sick, twisted part in him was overjoyed at the expression of pure_ hurt _on the Bard’s face, was glad to see that Geralt wasn’t the only one suffering. Yet, again, a small voice in the back of his head warned him he would come to regret his words._

_He ignored it, and turned around, walking to the cliff’s edge. He stood there, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, eyes staring unseeing over the landscape in front of him. He heard Jaskier mumble something behind him, but the pained voice was lost in the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, his own slow heartbeat deafening him._

_The part of him that regretted his words grew as he slowly, but surely, came to his senses, and realized the full weight of what he had said. Eventually, he couldn’t take the guilt growing in his stomach anymore, and he turned around, only finding air where Jaskier had been standing, his familiar scent long faded._

_He was gone._

҉ ҉ ҉

He awoke with a start as a scream ripped through the forest, a few birds taking flight from the branches of the willow tree Geralt was lying under, startled by the noise. He pushed himself up with a quiet groan, hand on the hilt of his sword, dried flakes of blood falling off the metal as he touched it.

He stood up quickly, head moving from side to side as he inspected the surrounding woods intently, yellow eyes focused. He listened, and startled a bit when another cry rang between the trees. It sounded as though a woman was being murdered, and without hesitation, he flung his bag over his shoulder, taking his sword in his hand.

He started in the direction of the sound. The canopy and many trees had bounced the scream around, which would’ve made it hard to pinpoint the source, if he didn’t have a supernatural sense of hearing. He moved quietly, swiftly, through the forest, footsteps light but determined over the fallen leaves.

It wasn’t long until he got to a small clearing in the trees, a rare view of the grey sky above him, as the branches gave way. He stayed at the edge, knowing he would make himself a target as soon as he stepped in the middle. The light, however dim, was still brighter than the forest around him, and he would not be able to see any potential enemies lurking behind the trees.

A small, pained sound drew his attention, and his eyes caught a glimpse of red. In the clearing, a little off-centre, lay a fox. Geralt regarded the edges of the forest one last time, before relaxing and walking over to the animal, lowering his sword as he did so.

The fox’s head lay on the fallen leaves, and it breathed quickly, shallowly. It didn’t look up as the Witcher approached, and Geralt couldn’t help but feel pity at the animal’s dejectedness. He kneeled next to it, eyes falling on a long gash in the fox’s hind leg. The stark white of bone shone through the darkness of the blood, dripping from the wound.

He sighed, as he realized he had rushed into action too quickly. An old lesson from Kaer Morhen resurfaced in the back of his mind: “ _A fox’s scream sounds like that of a woman, keep that in mind, Geralt. Do not judge a situation too quickly. Observe, listen, wait.”_ He shook his head to clear it from unwanted memories, as he laid a hand softly against the heaving side of the wounded animal. He observed the wound, deep and long, and wondered what could have caused it.

He cursed as the hairs at the back of his neck stood up. “ _Do not neglect your rationality in favour of your heart, Geralt.”_ Vesemir’s voice rang through his head, before he tightened the fingers of both hands around the hilt of his sword, swivelling around, moving the blade up.

A Hydra head clamped it’s teeth over his sword, and pulled. Geralt managed to hold on to it, but his shoulder groaned in protest, barely healed tissue threatening to tear at the force. He moved down to evade another one of the beast’s heads, dragging his sword with him, cutting the lower jaw off of the first head.

The monster screamed in pain, staggering back, which gave the Witcher an opportunity to cut off its third head, swiftly casting Igni to cauterize the wound, preventing two more heads from growing in its place.

A claw swiped down, burying itself into the dirt as he rolled to his right, the monster screaming in agony and rage. An Aard sign pushed the second head back, its teeth only mere inches away from his face. Another roll, this time to the left, gave him the perfect angle to cut the first, jawless head off, once again cauterizing the wound.

He stood up, swaying on his feet, sword in both hands. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs, but he refused to give in. It was just him against the middle head. A small voice in the back of his mind notified him that he had gotten lucky, as this was a young Hydra, the presence of only three heads indicating it had not seen serious battle yet.

The teeth lunged at him, and he moved to the side, cutting through the neck with ease, burning it shut. The ground under his feet shook a bit as the body fell down, and Geralt felt himself relax a bit.

He closed his eyes, tiredness weighing him down, and he considered climbing a tree and sleeping in it, when he heard a small, pained noise behind him. He had forgotten about the fox.

He turned around, sheathing his bloodied sword, and walked over to where the creature was still laying on the fallen leaves. He kneeled down next to it, hand resting against the side, right above its quick heartbeat, fingers threading through the soft fur. He regarded the wound in its hind leg, still seeping blood, bone exposed. He could only imagine the pain it was in.

Slowly, quietly, he unsheathed his dagger. It was still dirty, dried flakes of week-old Kikimora blood clinging to the blade, but it would do the job of releasing the animal from its suffering well enough. He sighed. “I’m sorry it had to go like this, you deserved better.”

He raised the knife, pressing the sharp tip against the pelt poking out beneath his fingers, still curled in the soft fur. The heaving ribcage threatened to impale itself, and the fox made a pained sound. Geralt looked to its head, his yellow eyes meeting those of a striking colour, like the sky on a clear summer’s day, like the ocean in the south, like cornflowers in a spring field. It was a blue he had only ever seen once before.

His grip on the blade faltered, and it fell on the ground with a soft _thud_. He bent down, moving closer to the fox, staring into its eyes as he narrowed his. The creature lifted its head, wet, black nose nearly touching the Witcher, before the fox grew tired again, laying back on the fallen leaves.

Geralt was frozen in place, his heart thrumming in his chest wildly. _It couldn’t be._ Yet, he couldn’t deny the familiar scent in the fox’s fur, half-buried beneath the iron smell of blood and the earthiness of the forest. He noticed the hand that was still laying on the fox’s side was shaking, and he looked down to where the blade had been pressed between the small ribs just seconds before.

The fox moved its head up again, yellow eyes meeting cornflower ones, the familiar scent tingling in Geralt’s nose again. _Cinnamon and blueberries…_

His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “Jaskier?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to @panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> So here's chapter two! Yennefer makes an appearance cause I love her so much, honestly. Also it's very hard to describe animal noises so you're gonna see the word 'squeak' a lot in this chapter.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it! (also follow and/or yell at me on tumblr @smol-squish-ao3, I also sometimes post previews there lmao)

_He closed his eyes, tiredness weighing him down, and he considered climbing a tree and sleeping in it, when he heard a small, pained noise behind him. He had forgotten about the fox._

_He turned around, sheathing his bloodied sword, and walked over to where the creature was still laying on the fallen leaves. He kneeled down next to it, hand resting against the side, right above its quick heartbeat, fingers threading through the soft fur. He regarded the wound in its hind leg, still seeping blood, bone exposed. He could only imagine the pain it was in._

_Slowly, quietly, he unsheathed his dagger. It was still dirty, dried flakes of week-old Kikimora blood clinging to the blade, but it would do the job of releasing the animal from its suffering well enough. He sighed. “I’m sorry it had to go like this, you deserved better.”_

_He raised the knife, pressing the sharp tip against the pelt poking out beneath his fingers, still curled in the soft fur. The heaving ribcage threatened to impale itself, and the fox made a pained sound. Geralt looked to its head, his yellow eyes meeting those of a striking colour, like the sky on a clear summer’s day, like the ocean in the south, like cornflowers in a spring field. It was a blue he had only ever seen once before._

_He sighed, and the fox lay his head back down on the fallen leaves. “I’m sorry,” he said once again, his voice barely more than a whisper. He pushed the blade down, piercing the fur easily, stabbing the creature in its heart. The fox shuddered one last breath, before stilling, the blue eyes staring ahead, unseeing._

_The Witcher sat there for a few seconds, quietly mourning the loss of an innocent life, one hand still in the red fur, the other around the dagger, sticking out between the ribs. He looked up again as the clouds drew back, sunlight shining on him. He frowned, when he realized the sky above was just as grey as before, and looked down to the fox, as the light grew in intensity, blinding him._

_He raised an arm to shield his face, blinking furiously to clear his vision from the black spots the brightness had caused. He felt the heat on the lower half of his face subside, and he lowered his arm again, still barely able to see anything. He rubbed his eyes, a headache starting to form behind his forehead._

_He opened his eyes again, and they widened as he took in the sight before him. His breath stopped in his throat, face growing pale, and he started to tremble uncontrollably._

_There, in the dead leaves in front of him, lay Jaskier’s body._

_His shaking hands reached up to ghost over the Bard’s bare side, one of them eventually settling on the pale face, skin still warm underneath his fingers. His cornflower eyes stared ahead, to the edge of the clearing, blue and unseeing, the usual spark in them gone, forever. Geralt closed them softly, his hands moving of their own accord._

_He felt numb, out of touch with reality as he looked to his right, seeing a gaping wound in Jaskier’s left leg, bone exposed, still seeping a bit of blood. His eyes travelled up to the face again, but stopped as he saw a familiar, silver glint. It was his dagger, still sticking out from between the Bard’s ribcage, where Geralt had pierced his heart._

_It felt as though a dam broke inside him, feelings suddenly overwhelming him to the point where he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. He had done this. He had murdered Jaskier._

_For the first time in his very long life, the Witcher screamed in agony._

҉ ҉ ҉

He awoke with a start, and realized he had fallen asleep while riding Roach. He heard a soft squeak and looked down at the bundle in his hands, blue eyes staring up at him questioningly. “It’s fine, just a dream,” he muttered and looked ahead again. They were on their way to the town of Kirekwall, which wasn’t far from the village that had requested his help with the Kikimora.

He had rushed his way down the hillside, Jaskier wrapped in an old shirt, the wound in his hind leg bandaged. He had asked for a healer in the nameless village, and they had pointed him to Kirekwall, where a Mage supposedly lived. He could see the silhouette of the town, dark against the purple and pink of dawn.

He leaned forward, careful not to hurt the Bard, and thanked Roach quietly for letting him sleep. He leaned back again, slowing the mare down as they entered the town. It was medium-sized, next to a major trading route, which had made the inhabitants rich. Their wealth showed in the clean cobblestone streets, the big, sturdy houses, and their fancy clothes, vain expressions on their faces as they looked at him disapprovingly from clear windows.

He paid no mind to it, instead steering Roach to the first inn he saw. He dismounted carefully, making sure not to hurt Jaskier. He pointed to his mare. “Stay.” She obliged, as always, and he went inside, walking straight to the innkeeper.

“Where can I find the Mage?” His voice was low, demanding, and the pot-bellied man behind the counter cowered a bit, pointing behind him.

“She lives down the street, sir. Purple door, can’t miss it.” The innkeeper winced as Geralt slammed a coin on the bar, sighing loudly in relief as the Witcher went back outside, hushed whispers and lingering stares following him.

He took Roach’s reigns, striding deeper into the town. The innkeeper had spoken true, and Geralt soon found himself in front of a cottage, squeezed between the two-story houses around it. He slammed his fist against the purple-painted door, as he held Jaskier softly to his chest.

No reaction could be heard from inside, and he looked down at the Bard, who cocked his head, squeaking lightly. _“Try again maybe?”_ He seemed to say, though there could be a million different ways to interpret the squeak. A small part in the back of his mind noted the fact that the edges of Jaskier’s irises seemed to rust, an orange-y brown creeping in on the bright blue.

He pushed the thought away, looking at the door once again, knocking it loudly once, twice. This time, he could hear stumbling inside, and the door was swung open wildly.

“What do you w-“ Yennefer’s sentence was cut short by her surprise, as she saw Geralt. She groaned and the Witcher shuffled a bit in place.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you, but it’s urgent.” He hated the way his voice sounded awkward, but Yennefer just rolled her eyes, and stepped aside, purple eyes following him intently as he walked past her, into the cottage.

He found himself in the living room, that doubled as her study. In the middle of the floor stood a large wooden table, littered with books and all sorts of herbs and vials. The shelves on the walls were overflowing with books and potions as well.

With one swoop of her arm, she cleared the table, and looked at him expectantly. “Well go on, lay the Bard down.” He did as she had demanded, looking at her in surprise. She rolled her eyes at him again. “Yes, I know it’s him.”

Geralt shrugged in response, lifting a stack of papers from a chair and putting it on the ground, pulling the chair to the table, and sitting down. Jaskier seemed angered as Yennefer bent over him, poking at his head with one curious finger. The Bard batted a paw at her, growling in warning.

“Well, he still seems to hate me.” She looked up at Geralt. “You sure you want him changed back? I mean he’s a lot less loud right now, and a lot cuter.” That earned her another snarl from the Bard, and she chuckled.

Geralt sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Please, can you help him? At least with the wound?”

She lifted her hands up in defeat. “Fine, fine. I’ll see what I can do to heal him, and then I’ll find a way to break the curse, I guess.” She pointed at him. “But you better leave me the hell alone after this.”

He sighed again, sagging in his chair, as she unwrapped the bandages from Jaskier’s leg. There was no use in telling her this was all a big coincidence, some cruel twist of fate designed by Destiny herself. He tried to ignore Jaskier’s squeaks of pain, sharp, tiny nails burying themselves in the wood of the table as Yennefer cleaned the wound and cast a healing spell.

She pulled up another chair, sitting down next to the Bard, compass in her hands. “Alright, I will make a tracking spell that will lead you to whoever made the curse. Though, for some reason I doubt they’ll be of much help. The spell on Jaskier doesn’t feel hostile, more… pure, good.” Geralt cocked his head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jaskier swivelled his head between the pair, blue eyes curious.

She sighed, rubbing her forehead a bit. “I don’t think whoever made this had bad intentions. I just… don’t know why they did this, if that’s really the case.” She shrugged, sitting up straight, holding the compass in her flat palms.

She gazed at it intently, muttering a few words in Elder, and the object lit up, a soft light surrounding it. Jaskier looked at it, then at her, cocking his head, ears perked up. A small squeak, and Yennefer rolled her eyes.

“Yes, it works, Bard.” Another squeak, this time lower, more decisive. “Yes, I know it’s still pointing to the north, _I can see that_. Just trust me, it works.” She all but slammed the compass on the table, and stood up, stalking into her bedroom.

She returned a few moments later with a large piece of cloth. “Here, you’ll need this,” she said as she threw it in Geralt’s lap. He looked at her questioningly. “It’s a baby sling. You can use it to carry the Bard without having to use your hands.” The Witcher decided not to question why she had it in the first place.

Jaskier squeaked indignantly, and she looked at him. “What? Do you seriously think you’re going to be able to keep up with Roach with that wound?” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Absolutely not. This is the safest way.”

Jaskier let out a whine, laying his head on his front paws, and Yennefer shrugged, looking at Geralt once again. “Now, go, you need to hurry.” She shot a look at the Bard, lowering her voice. “I don’t know what long-term effects this spell might have on him.”

Jaskier’s head shot up, letting out a long whine, and Geralt swore he could hear panic in the sound. He looked down at the Bard, then back into Yennefer’s purple eyes. He stood up, taking the baby sling, managing to fasten it properly around himself. Jaskier let out a small squeak as the Witcher picked him up by the waist, safely depositing him in the cloth, against his chest.

“Don’t worry,” he half spoke to the Bard, half to the Mage. “I won’t let anything happen.”

҉ ҉ ҉

He had to admit, carrying Jaskier in the sling wasn’t as uncomfortable as he had expected. They were riding north, and once in a while he made a passing comment to the Bard, earning him a squeak or a nudge with the wet, black nose in return. He stared intently at the compass, and after a few hours it started to point to the northeast.

He smiled. She had been right, as always. Her tracking spell had worked. Soft fur tickled his chin as Jaskier looked at the view, head moving from side to side. Another squeak, as the Bard looked at the forest. “ _Beautiful, isn’t it?”_ He seemed to ask, and Geralt hummed in agreement. He couldn’t really explain it, but some part of him always found some sort of translation for the squeaks and whines. He had no way of knowing his interpretation was right, of course, but so far Jaskier hadn’t seemed to complain about his responses, so he figured he was pretty spot-on.

More than once he found himself smiling at the Bard’s soft noises, at the warmth on his chest, at the knowledge that Jaskier was safe, for now. He realized he had missed Jaskier, more than he would’ve liked to admit, and his mind flashed back to their painful separation, now over a year ago.

He cleared his throat, and blue eyes looked up at him. “I uh…” He had no idea what to say, but he tried anyways. “I’m sorry, for what happened. On the mountain. I shouldn’t have said those things, I was wrong, and you deserve better.” He stared ahead, not daring to look down at the Bard.

A wet nose touched his chin, and he finally tore his gaze away from the horizon. Jaskier whined softly, voice hopeful somehow. _“It’s okay, I forgive you,”_ he seemed to say. Geralt smiled, relief flooding through him as he saw the familiar twinkle in those blue eyes, rusty brown at the edges of the irises.

҉ ҉ ҉

They rode on for five more days, barely resting, trekking across half the Continent, before ending up in the mountains near Kaer Morhen. The days were growing shorter, wet snow starting to fall as they struggled their way up a mountain path. Jaskier shivered, burying himself deeper into the sling, in search of Geralt’s warmth.

The Witcher worried as they went up the slippery slope. The Bard seemed to have… changed somewhat in the past few days. He had seemed different three times, to be exact. His blue eyes had lost their familiar sparkle, and he had clawed and scratched at Geralt’s armour, hissing as he did so. He had even tried to jump out of the sling once, biting at the Witcher’s hand as it held him in place.

Afterwards, he had acted normal again, all inquisitive squeaks and huffs, blue eyes sparkling and curious as to what had angered Geralt, rust around the irises. The Witcher had just shaken his head, deciding not to worry the Bard with the suspicion that had started to form in the back of his mind.

The compass now shone brightly in his hand as they stopped in front of a small opening in the mountain side, a curtain of vines shielding the cave. He frowned, as the vines usually only grew in the south, and definitely not in this time of year. _Surely, some kind of magic is happening here._

He dismounted, pausing for a second before pushing the vines to the side, walking into the cave, hand on his sword. It was warm inside, a firepit in the middle of the stone floor, finely carved wooden furniture around it. Flowers were painted all over the walls, and leaves were drawn on the floor.

A young woman stood at a cupboard, her back turned towards them. Golden curls hung down the back of her forest green dress, and she was about five feet tall. Geralt stood there for a few seconds, unsure of what to do, but her voice rang out, clear as a silver bell. “I’ll be right with you, Witcher!”

She rummaged some more, the rustling of paper and the crackling of fire the only sounds filling the cave. Eventually, she turned around to face the pair, broad smile on her features, light green eyes twinkling in delight. She looked young, around twenty years old, though she was undoubtedly a lot older than that, as almost all Mages were.

Yet, she seemed youthful in another way, as well. Her features were bright with hope, a fundamental belief in the goodness of this world. It wasn’t naivety, as Geralt had seen that many times before. This was a genuine goodness, a truthful kindness, like there wasn’t much left of these days. Somehow, it made him feel lighter, as if he had just stepped on a cloud.

“How can I help you?” Her voice was high and joyful, her features shining like the sun.

“I uh…” He had expected a lot of things, but certainly not _this_. He couldn’t exactly fight his way out of this situation, demand the spell to be broken. He just had to ask nicely. “My friend here is under some sort of spell, can you help him?” He pointed awkwardly at Jaskier.

The Mage approached, cocking her head at the Bard. She ran a small finger over Jaskier’s cheek softly, and he closed his eyes contentedly, sighing a bit. “I can see that, Geralt of Rivia.” She frowned, the displeased look strange on her young face. “And I can sense that the spell is from my hand.”

She looked up at him, worry in her eyes. He held up the compass. “A tracking spell led us here.”

She frowned again, looking at Jaskier, bright blue eyes meeting green ones. She sighed. “I remember now. I sold a transformation potion to a man who was passing through here, a few weeks ago.”

Geralt struggled to hold back a groan. _Great, more searching._

She continued, though: “I told him he needed to put something in the potion, a part of the animal he wanted to turn into, and then create a safe-word.”

His ears perked up at that, and he looked at her curiously. “A safe-word?”

She nodded absentmindedly, a faraway look in her eyes, as though she had been transported back to the day in question, and barely registered the Witcher in front of her anymore. “Yes… Something someone close to you can say, that will make you turn back into a human.” She furrowed her brow, voice turning weak, talking to herself more than to Geralt, tears forming in her eyes. “He told me he wanted to turn into a bird…”

She looked back up at him, her eyes suddenly and surprisingly clear, her voice strong. “He used my magic to hurt someone.” Her hand shot up to grab his arm, her grip vice-like, fire in her eyes. “Find him, Witcher. Make him _pay.”_

He nodded, eyes wide, and she let go of him, turning on her heel to rummage through the cupboard she had been searching earlier. She returned, yellow potion in hand. She took the compass from his hands, pouring the liquid over it. The object shimmered, the needle spinning around wildly a few times before stopping at _south_.

“It’s another tracking spell,” she said as she returned the compass to Geralt, “it will show you who did this to your friend.” She took a step back, suddenly, and extended her hand. The Witcher took it, shaking it once or twice, fingers curling around the piece of paper she had left in his palm as she retrieved her hand.

“Good luck, Geralt of Rivia. I really hope your friend becomes human again.” He nodded at her, and in the blink of an eye, she was gone. The cave had become empty, the fire had died out, and the stone walls and floor were barren, bleak in their greyness.

He looked down at Jaskier, who cocked his head. “ _I don’t know, don’t ask me where she went,”_ he seemed to say. Geralt shrugged, and left the cave, mounting Roach and setting out to the valley below, tiny piece of paper still clutched in his hand.

҉ ҉ ҉

That evening, by the fire, Jaskier fell asleep next to him, head in Geralt’s lap as he sat there, cross legged, waiting for the moment the Bard’s breathing deepened sufficiently. Carefully, as to not wake the other up, he opened the piece of folded paper he had held in his hand most of the day. The handwriting was neat and round.

_“A warning I didn’t want your friend to hear. After ten days the spell becomes permanent. Your friend will lose his humanity and remain an animal forever. You may have already seen changes in his behaviour. Hurry.”_

Geralt felt his breath stop in his throat, his heart skipping a painful beat. He hid the note in his sleeve, shaking Jaskier slightly. The Bard squeaked tiredly, and looked up at him.

The Witcher tried to keep his voice steady as he asked: “How long were you a fox before I found you?” Jaskier blinked at him, before gently scratching Geralt’s leg three times. _Three days._

Geralt nodded, and tried to keep the panic from his face. Eight days had passed since the spell had been cast on Jaskier. They didn’t have long.

The Bard yawned, and drifted back into sleep, eyes blinking closed, the colour of rust taking up half the irises, closing in on the blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also! At the moment I'm working very hard on part 2 of my Wasteland, Baby series, which I will start posting like a week after I finished posting this work, I hope? So follow me on tumblr, or subscribe to me or the series on ao3 if you want to get notifications for that!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to @panlesters for being my beta!
> 
> Trigger warning for this chapter! It does contain multiple mentions of suicide, though it's not graphic. But if you're sensitive about that topic but still really want to read the conclusion to this fic, maybe like send me a DM on tumblr @smol-squish-ao3 or leave a comment here, and I'll see if I can write a different version of this chapter for you.
> 
> Anyways, as always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment if you feel like it!

Roach was sweating underneath him, and he couldn’t help but apologize to her, again and again. She deserved better than the ruthless manhunt they’d been on for the past day and a half, following the compass to the southwest. They were running short on time, though.

They barely ate or slept, as they pushed onwards, and Geralt tried to ignore Jaskier’s inquisitive stares and unasked questions. “ _Why are we in such a hurry, Geralt?”_ He didn’t have the heart to tell the Bard what could possibly happen, should they fail their quest to find the person responsible for the spell. Yet, he couldn’t deny the orange in Jaskier’s eyes anymore, or the more frequent moments where he seemed to truly turn into a fox, biting and snarling at the Witcher.

Finally, a little after noon on the second day since their departure from the mountains – the last day the Mage had said they could turn Jaskier back into a human, they arrived at a small town near the ocean. Geralt shuddered as he realized it wasn’t too far from Blaviken, and he pushed away the memories that resurfaced of that fateful day, decades ago.

Roach’s hooves thumped on the dirt streets, and Geralt stared intently at the compass in his hands, squinting his eyes against the light emanating from the object. Suddenly, the needle swiveled around, pointing to a small alleyway on their left.

He dismounted Roach, leading her into the street the compass indicated. Slowly, he walked onwards. The town seemed abandoned, empty, but he could sense the dozens of eyes that were following him through the windows, hiding from the Butcher of Blaviken. Eventually, the needle of the compass pointed to his right, and he looked at the house – barely more than a shack.

He let go of Roach’s reigns with a “Stay,” and walked to the door. He could feel Jaskier shuffle nervously in the sling. “Calm down, it’s going to be fine.”

A squeak emanated from the fabric. _“I have a bad feeling about this.”_ Geralt snorted.

“Yeah, me too.” He raised his hand, knocking thrice. The wood creaked beneath his hand, smelling of salt water, and feeling damp. He looked down the street as he waited, taking in the run-down state of this entire village. Sure, it could have done some trading, as it was next to the sea, but it was too far from plentiful lands for that to be a viable option. The northernmost kingdoms just didn’t produce that much of value, mostly keeping to themselves, so the southern countries didn’t bother trying to keep up the trading routes.

So, this village might’ve had a bright future once, but those times were long forgotten, buried under a layer of algae that seemed to grow on the houses, fed by the damp air drifting from the sea. He could hear the ocean slamming on cliffsides, not too far away, gulls screaming above him.

He frowned. This had not been what he expected when he found out Jaskier had been cursed. The Bard had a nasty habit of sleeping around in several courts, with people he shouldn’t be getting even remotely close to. Geralt had just assumed the spell had been cast by a scorned lover or spouse, acting out of jealousy or heartbreak, slipping the potion in Jaskier’s drink while he wasn’t paying attention, too focused on his music or his next romantic adventure.

So being here, in this nobody of a village, the algae slippery under his feet, the wooden houses on the brink of collapse, the smell of hunger and fear emanating from every doorway, was quite jarring. He sighed, pushing his musings away, and knocked again, three loud bangs echoing through the empty streets.

He cocked his head as the door opened a crack, but he couldn’t see anybody inside. A fluttering heartbeat and shaky breath drew his attention, though, and he looked a few feet below his eye-level, seeing big, brown eyes staring up at him. The child gasped in shock, slamming the door shut, and he could hear the little boy shouting inside: “Daddy! There’s a strange man at the door!”

He heard a deeper voice answer, and footsteps approaching, before the door was being opened once again. This time, it was a tall, lanky man, about the same height as Geralt. Clearly, the child had inherited his father’s brown eyes, he noticed. The man looked at him for a minute through the crack in the doorway, before swinging it open fully.

The first thing he noticed when he saw the other man, was how tired he looked. Dark circles marred the skin under his eyes, crow’s feet present too soon for what seemed to be a twenty-five year old man. He wore run-down clothes, the colours dreary and washed out, a mix of browns and greys, barely-patched up holes in the thin fabric.

Geralt looked down, and saw a little boy and a girl around the same age clinging to their father’s legs. _Twins_. They had their dad’s brown eyes, but their hair was pitch black, whereas the man’s hair colour seemed to match his eyes. Must’ve inherited that from their mother, then.

The man eyed him suspiciously, and Geralt realized what a strange sight he must be in this town. The white-haired Witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken, showing up with a baby sling, containing a fox, riding what was probably the first horse people had seen in years. _Not something you see every day._

He extended his hand, offering it to the man, and he tried to appear non-threatening – as far as that was possible for a Witcher. “Geralt of Rivia.” The man took it cautiously, shaking it once before letting go.

“I know who you are, Witcher.” A hint of bitterness crept into the stranger’s voice, and Geralt tried to keep his face as level and even as possible. “I’m Celdred. These are my twins, Hani and Lani.” Geralt nodded at them, and they buried their big, brown eyes into the fabric of their dad’s pants.

“Why are you here, Witcher?” Celdred sounded tired, defeated, and his shoulders were slumped. Geralt could practically taste the grief in the air, and he was taken aback a bit. _What happened here?_

Instead of addressing what he had sensed, he simply asked: “May I come inside?” Celdred nodded, and stepped aside, the twins moving along with him. Geralt walked inside the… _house_ , and looked around. Everything consisted of damp wood, the smell putrid in the air. It was a one-room house, the bedroom separated from the rest of the living quarters by a curtain. The tapestry seemed to be the only thing of value in here, and it was well taken care of, a beautiful landscape of mountains and rivers stitched into the fabric with precision and dedication.

“Sit down, please.” Celdred motioned to the dinner table, taking a chair on one side himself, the twins clambering up on his knees, holding onto his neck, staring at Geralt as he, too, sat down.

“Have we met before?” The Witcher’s voice was low and serious. He didn’t want to scare the man away, as it seemed that Celdred’s grieving was directly linked to Geralt.

Celdred sighed. “No, we haven’t, but you’ve been around these parts before.” _Here we go._ Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, certainly had been near here before.

The man, however continued: “Five years ago, we sent a messenger to you, asking for your help with a Siren on our shores. Two people had already met their ends because of it.”

A light went on in Geralt’s mind, as he remembered that day. Someone from a nameless fisher village had travelled a day to see him, to ask him for help with a monster, offering the Witcher a meagre payment for the job. That day stood out more clearly in his mind than others, because the village had been so close to the dreaded Blaviken, a place he never wanted to be near again, so he-

“You refused at first. It took the messenger two days to convince you to kill the Siren.” Celdred’s face grew grave. “In those two days, my wife… she was lured off the cliff by that sweet song.”

_Oh._ “I didn’t know that.” No one had ever told him, and he had simply slain the monster, collected his coin, and travelled onwards.

Celdred scoffed. “I didn’t tell you because I knew it wasn’t your fault, not really. Your reputation precedes you, Witcher, and the town of Blaviken is too close.” The man hesitated, confused. “But why are you here, then, if you did not know?”

It was Geralt’s turn to hesitate. “My friend, he was cursed.” He looked down at Jaskier, who was asleep in the sling, blissfully unaware of the heaviness that hung around the room. “We tracked the spell, and it led us here.”

Celdred frowned, then looked shocked, his mouth forming a small _oh._ Geralt raised his eyebrows, inquiring the man to speak his mind. “My father in law…” Celdred looked at him in disbelief, “he _did_ blame you for my wife’s death.”

_Aha_ , so he was the man responsible for this. “Wait,” he said, confusion racing through him, “ _did_ blame me?”

Celdred nodded. “He died, about a week ago.” He looked scared as he saw Geralt’s hand gripping the edge of the table, knuckles turning white. “He went away a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t say where he was going. Then, when he came back, he jumped off the cliff… The same place…” He didn’t need to finish his sentence, the message was loud and clear.

So the man that blamed Geralt for his daughter’s untimely death went north, bought a transformation potion, put some fox hairs into it, somehow slipped it into Jaskier’s cup, and returned home, jumping to his own death, taking the safe-word with him to the grave. _Fan-fucking-tastic._

Geralt breathed deeply once, twice, to calm himself down. Surely the old man must’ve left some clues. “Did he say anything special before leaving?”

Celdred shook his head. “No, but…” he tightened his arms around the twins, grief on his face, “he visited the Siren’s lair, before hiking up the cliff and…” He sighed. “Some fishermen saw him there, that afternoon.”

Geralt stood abruptly, startling the twins, waking Jaskier up, who squeaked in annoyance. “I’m sorry for what happened to your wife. I truly am. I have no excuse.” Celdred looked tired, but managed an apologetic smile.

The Witcher nodded at the man, and left the house, startling as darkness flooded through him. It was the night of the tenth day since Jaskier had drunk the potion. They didn’t have much time left, at all. He mounted Roach, setting off towards the sea.

҉ ҉ ҉

He left his mare at the top of the cliff, setting down the path to the beach. He remembered exactly where he had slain the Siren, and found the crack in the cliffside easily, barely fitting through it. Inside, it wasn’t much larger, the walls touching his shoulders. He could feel sand under his feet, but even with his superior eyesight, he couldn’t see a thing in the darkness of the cave.

He found a piece of driftwood on the sand, lighting it with Igni, the flickering flames illuminating the walls. He sighed in relief as he could see words scratched into the stone on his right. The letters were uneven, and he could smell the pure grief in the words.

It was a farewell letter to the man’s daughter, the mother of the twins.

“ _Esenna, I’m sorry for not being there, for not being able to hold you back from the cliff’s edge. I’m sorry. I will join you soon._

_Love, Dad.”_

Sadness swelled in his chest, and he felt angry with his past self for letting this happen, for putting innocent people’s lives at stake because of his own cowardice. Silently, he forgave the man for what he’d done.

An idea dawned on him, though, and he pulled Jaskier out of the sling, kneeling on the sand, and setting him down. The Bard cocked his head curiously. _“What’s going on?”_

“I think I have an idea for the safe-word,” Geralt said, eyeing the letter on the cave wall. He breathed deeply, looking into Jaskier’s eyes, the colour of rust, only a sliver of blue remained at the inner rim of his irises “Esenna.” The daughter’s name. Quite an obvious choice, as her death had started all this, and a sentimental father would definitely choose that as the word to undo all the damage the curse had caused.

Nothing happened.

Panic flared up in him. He took Jaskier’s face in his hands, staring at him intently. “Esenna.” Nothing. “Esenna, goddammit!”

Nothing.

He felt tears well up in his eyes, as Jaskier whined softly. “ _It’s okay.”_

“No, no, it’s not okay, Jaskier! This is all my fault.” He felt a tear roll down his cheek, as he cradled the Bard, midnight approaching fast. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He could see the rusty colour closing in on the blue, the Bard he knew fading away. He took a shaky breath. “I love you, Jaskier.”

There was no more trace of blue in the eyes left.

The fox snarled at him, biting at his hands, and he reluctantly let go. It ran, still limping as the wound in its hind leg had not fully healed yet, and Geralt was left alone in the dark, dank cave. Jaskier was gone.

There, the Witcher sat alone, still on his knees, the moisture from the sand soaking through his pants, onto his knees. Coldness seeped into his bones, seemingly making themselves at home there for an indefinite amount of time. The torch was still lit, but laying on the sand, casting flickering shadows on the walls around him, each taking the shape of his guilt, pointing at him, shouting. _You did this, you failed him, this is your fault._

He lowered his head into his hands, tears flowing freely, letting himself cry for what seemed to be the first time in decades. He hadn’t cried like this since he had started his Witcher trials. He hadn’t when he was put through the toughest tests known to mankind, hadn’t when he realized the world saw him as a monster, hadn’t when Renfri had died in the streets of Blaviken, hadn’t when Yennefer had left him, hadn’t when he had pushed Jaskier away.

But he did now, as the Bard crossed his mind again and again. Brown curls and blue eyes. Blushing cheeks and toothy smiles. Stupid jokes and silly songs. Powerful voice and intricate melodies. Dear friend and love of his life. Gone, forever.

_Geralt had failed him._

҉ ҉ ҉

He sat there for hours, as the night progressed, still as a statue. His tears had dried, but the grief hadn’t faded, still fresh in his mind, cutting him open from the inside. The torch had flickered out, and had left him in the darkness, the taunting voices of the shadows still haunting him. He could feel dawn approaching, but felt no need to move. He would stay there forever, turn to stone, and serve as a warning to others, to not let your fears stop you from helping others.

_“That’s the butcher of Blaviken,”_ they’d say. _“Lost his love and turned into stone because he refused to help those who needed him.”_

He was already going mad, he realized, as he could smell cinnamon and blueberries in the air. He was already imagining things, recalling the scent of the person he loved, hallucinating his familiar heartbeat.

“I love you too, you know.” Geralt’s head jerked up at the voice, eyes widening in shock as he saw Jaskier’s silhouette against the red and purple of the nearing dawn. He was wrapped in a soaked blanket, and shivering, but it was him nonetheless, smile on his face, sparkle in his blue eyes.

Geralt was up in an instant, taking the two steps across the sand, to the Bard, cradling the face in his hands. He let a small half-laugh, more a short breath than anything, in disbelief. Cornflower blue eyes met dandelion ones, as Jaskier leaned into his touch, a hand coming up to thread his fingers through the Witcher’s.

One, two slow heartbeats passed, and they moved towards each other simultaneously, lips crashing into each other forcefully, sparks setting the world on fire, as the dawn rose pink and red behind them.

҉ The End ҉

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I'm working very hard on part 2 of the Wasteland, Baby series right now, and honestly I'm so excited to show it to you guys. It's bigger, it's better, and most importantly, it's ANGSTY!
> 
> Also come yell at me on tumblr @smol-squish-ao3 if you want! I just posted a moodboard for Wasteland 2 there, so obvs following me on tumblr has major perks and exclusive content like shittily edited moodboards and teasers for fics that kinda make no sense out of context! Good times! So go follow me there!
> 
> EDIT: I am now @king-finnigan on tumblr!


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